Bowerchalke is not 'the village of the damned'

The view of Bowerchalke from Marleycombe Hill, taken yesterday evening (Photo: Will Heaven)

A few years ago a nasty rumour circulated around my Wiltshire village, Bowerchalke. The rumour was that a Left-wing newspaper – apparently called "the Guardian" – had published a damning article about the place. Indeed, the article was supposedly headlined "Village of the Damned". At the request of my grandmother (who has lived here since the late 1950s), I recently searched for the feature online and found it. Written by David McKie, it described Bowerchalke as follows:

"…a gentle, even genteel, place, with two roads of mainly prosperous houses, some old and refurbished, some new but doing their best to look old. Scented roses flourish in well-bred gardens; burglar alarms gleam on the walls. It's a pleasant spot to wander though on a sunny June morning. And yet by the ancient test of what a village needs to be a real village, Bowerchalke fails. No school any more; no pub; no shop. Of the four focal points that bind a village together, only the church remains."

Well, David McKie should take note: if we see him snooping around the village again, there might be trouble. Bowerchalke is a close-knit community and a very happy one. It's not, as he implies, a village of empty houses filled by "weekenders" from the city – I know of only one such place, and even the city broker who owns the cottage was born here. Moreover, the idea that Bowerchalke is in some way dying ignores all evidence to the contrary.

Yesterday was Bowerchalke's Flower Show – a great success, by all accounts. There were all the usual faces and laughter, a merry-go-round for the young children, a coconut shy, a baking and a vegetable competition, cream teas, a raffle and an auction. There was a long-distance egg-throwing competition – which the chairman and his son won amid accusations of their egg being hard-boiled – and a skittle alley. And this was, of course, all held at the village hall (one of the "focal points" McKie fails to mention). There was a real sense of community; from the Lord of the Manor to the council house tenants, the very young to the very old, everyone made an appearance – and many helped to organise the day.

It's true, like many villages in Britain, Bowerchalke is now without a Post Office and lacks a pub, and the school disappeared years ago. But country values run deep, and many families – from the tractor-drivers to the landowners – have lived here for generations. Even those who have re-located from the city seem to be involved in goings on, helping to run the over-60s club and activities like meals on wheels for the elderly or infirm. And let's not be too dramatic – the nearest Post Office is now all of 2 miles away in the next village; there are tens of pubs nearby.

Bowerchalke is currently building a cricket pitch (complete with pavilion) to be opened next year. You can see it in the picture above if you look closely. There is even talk of a new village market taking place at the village hall every couple of weeks (a questionnaire was handed round at the Flower Show). Villagers would sell and swap home-grown produce to each other, all for a small profit. It would be run by volunteers, and trust me, the produce would be good – there's already something of a black market in the village among those who keep pigs or chickens, who grow raspberries or runner beans.

Village life is evolving in England, but then it has always been in a constant state of change, and often change for the better. McKie laments that "only the name remains of what was the forge". Well, fifty years ago the forge was derelict (I know because my grandparents bought the place and lovingly restored it over twenty years). It's defunct because not many of us ride horses to the market – and cars don't need re-shoeing. The pub shut in 1988 because it was awful, and usually empty, with most people driving to nicer ones in the surrounding area. The school was small and worthwhile in Victorian times, but with buses there was no need to have one so local, and the next-door village's grew until a new, modern site had to be built. The problem is, Guardian readers and writers don't live in the countryside. They are all like Marwood in Withnail and I: they think, like him, that country life should be like an H.E. Bates novel. Well, apologies for the country boy's rant, but those of us who grew up here think differently.